Rainbow's End - Wizard (17 page)

*

Just then Izzy came into the dining room and pulled up a chair. He told them that he was leaving shortly, but coming back in two days - three at the most. Then he turned to Thomas.

‘Ariana
asked me to give you a message,’ he said. The boy nodded, waiting, and Izzy felt himself again disconcerted at the very green of his gaze. ‘She said that she knows your appointment is for tomorrow night, but wondered: could you spare her another hour or two this afternoon? Say… fourish?’

Th
omas gave another nod, but looked troubled, and Izzy said, reassuringly, ‘There’s no need for worry, Thomas. She just wants to see your photos. She asked that you please bring your album with...’

*****

He’d been waiting for her - the same as every other morning. And when Frieda came through the dining room door, Arnold stood straighter and pulled in his ample stomach. As usual, to Arnold in anyway, she looked lovely, and greeted him with a shy “Good morning, Arnold”. He squirmed and felt his heavy legs go weak, and could only reply with a nonsensical something that sounded terribly much like a squeak.

Frieda
looked at his stretched but spotlessly clean T-shirt; she smiled and he was lost in her hazel-brown eyes.

‘What a nice shirt,’ she said, and with another squeak, the large cook of
Rainbow’s End turned and blundered back into his kitchen. As every other morning, Frieda’s food was long ready; all sprigged up and arranged by the love-struck Arnold, and what he reverently placed in front of her, would have put a chef at the Ritz to shame.

A small bowl
of cereal was ringed by sliced bananas and strawberries, and topped with fresh cream; the honey for her usual two slices of toast, gold and syrupy and bottled only four days ago. The sugar cubes for her coffee had been painstakingly carved into little hearts…

She thanked Arnold and complimented him on his obvious artistry
; he squirmed again and they both blushed furiously. Then she sat down and started her meal, while Arnold nonchalantly retired to another table, pretending to read a newspaper while surreptitiously watching Frieda finish every last crumb.

*****

Izzy stood on a solid, hard-packed piece of ground on the bank of the Rainbow Pool and wondered to himself how many times before he had done this. He looked down the lush valley, at the grassy fields speckled and dotted with thousands of flowers and clumps of trees and it made him breathe deep in wonder and fulfilment. The mountains and hills - surrounding all but the bottom of the valley, towered high and protected the jewel that lay between them; like rows of blue and green and brown sentinels.

Behind him, the high waterfall fell through a
succession of ledges, at last landing in the pool with hardly more than a low, rumbling shhhhh. The rainbow - up close - was a series of wide pillars stretching high and straight up, before curving over and then vanishing behind the cliff and the waterfall.

He
sighed, and like every other time before, felt sadness at leaving this magical place. No matter, he thought. He would be back in only two days, maybe a bit more. The morning sun was soft and warm on his face, and he took his keys from his jacket pocket, then, by its golden chain, swung the plum sized crystal above his head.

The yellow
leg of the Rainbow widened and bent towards the lone human figure; and then Izzadore Greenbaum was gone.

*****

Thomas had brought a blanket, and it was spread on - and hanging over - the end of the Talking Rock. Ariana sat looking at the first picture of Rose. The one that had immediately grabbed Annie’s attention.

The flashing eyes, almost black… And her hair - thick and curly and with a life
of its own (the grey streaks pulled at Ariana’s heart). And that smile - at times so happy, at others, enigmatic or laden with all the world’s sadness…

A
nd could she laugh. Ye gods. Rose’s laugh could grab you and shake you; infect you and make you shudder and roll and gasp for breath, and then laugh some more.

She had the driest wit and would sometimes say something, then wait a minute, the innocence on her face angelic. And then, if the others haven’t caught on yet, suddenly and without being able to hold back any longer, let loose a loud, uninhibited guffaw, and bring the house crashing down…
Screaming with laughter.

Ariana turned the page. Rose’s daughter had Orson’s eyes. And his hair. Nothing
else - thank the gods. She tried looking behind them, but couldn’t. Still - that look: self-centred maybe…?

The photo
of Rose in hiking gear made her smile. Rosie had always loved nature, and preferred the outdoors to the in, any day. She had loved Rainbow’s End, totally.

If only
, Ariana thought. If only…

She turned some more pages
: Images of a baby Thomas - progressing until the present. A white house with a red roof, a small mustard-coloured car in front of it. Rose with her students in a class photo. All of the pictures, the images - they all looked at Ariana, they spoke to her. And told her that Rose had been happy. Most of the time, at least.

The last page showed a
young and very beautiful Rose - every bit the Roma. With golden hoops in her ears and her hair piled high; and more gold on her arms and fingers and a medallion around her neck. She wore a starkly white man’s shirt, a multi-coloured skirt and boots. The man with her was almost two heads shorter: he wore an expensive suit and his hair was neatly trimmed; his shoes shone like mirrors and he could have been a carnival’s ugly man. Ariana, who had known him almost all his life, recognised Orson at once.

The
wagon behind them was painted yellow; its red lettering said “GYPSY ROSE”.  

Ariana sat very still and was quiet for a long time, and when Thomas started fidgeting, turned and gave him a sad smile. It was getting dark and she said, ‘Thank you, Thomas.
Thank you for sharing your life with me.’

Thomas nodded and got to his feet, clutching the album to his chest. ‘Do you still want to see me tomorro
w night?’ he asked.

‘
Yes.’ A small nod from Ariana. ‘Yes, please.’

He
said goodnight and turned to leave, but Ariana stopped him.

‘Thomas,’ she said, you’ll be seeing Orson tonight…’

‘I don’t know…’ he began, but she stopped him.

‘
I
know, Thomas.’ A soft smile and her eyes were dark blue pools. ‘
Everything
, remember.’ He nodded and she said, ‘Please ask him to come see me tomorrow. Tell him it’s important.’ A last smile. ‘Goodnight, Thomas.’

*****

It was another wonderful night - soft and silver and Thomas didn’t know he was barefoot, or where he was going, until he felt the first slippery-cool mud of the small stream squelch between his toes. The Magic Forest…

It
was
magic… The moon hung very low in the sky and seemed to touch the canopy of the massive old trees, leaving them gloamy lower down, and filling their upper branches with an ethereal, misty gleam, alive with secrets and shadows and fluttery things. Some of its beams penetrated lower down, turning the gossamer ropes of moss - which hung like hairy curtains between the lower branches and trunks of the aeon and century-old trees – ghostly green. Their trailing ends brushed the boy’s cheeks, arms, and legs like stealthy spider legs. The night was alive with its own sounds: bats and owls and other birds, and small rustly things. It smelled rich, loamy, and wet.

T
hen Thomas was standing in the middle of the short wide bridge straddling the last rocky stream, looking at Orson’s house. It was as much a part of the forest as the trees, and at night, only discernable from the mysterious glow of the single, dim light in one of its windows.

He stood looking for a few dreamlike minutes
; the sounds of the mercurial water playing with the pebbles and the rocks, and the hooting of the owls nesting in the cottage’s chimney, seemed very loud.

Suddenly
, from one dark corner of the cottage’s veranda, a ball of orangey-blue fire flickered on, and burning, seemed to first just hang in the air. Then it moved: first slow and mesmeric and from side to side; then suddenly - having identified its target - faster and down the four steps, towards a gaping Thomas. It stopped in front of him and hovered, hot and softly crackling and smelling of sulphur.

T
hen Orson croaked - also from the veranda’s dark corner.

‘Welcome Thomas, and thank you for gracing my humble ho
me with your noble presence. For the second time, I should add.’ He cackled. ‘I was out the first.’ A snort and a hiccup. ‘Sorry about that, but John really should know better…’ The ball of fire, as big as a dinner plate, slowly began moving again.

‘Allow me to light your way,
young sir, then come sit with an old man, and talk and listen for a while.’ A giggle. The fireball threw a spotlight at Thomas’ feet and he followed it; off the bridge and over the leafy ground, then up the steps and onto the deeply shaded veranda, into the dark corner where Orson sat. It hovered over a footstool and Orson said, ‘Sit down, Thomas.’ The boy hesitated and he asked, ‘or would you prefer a chair?’

Thomas
shook his head, mutely, and sat down on the tightly stuffed leather-pouffe.

‘Coke?’ asked Orson and Thomas -
not understanding the older man’s guttural croak, said, ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Do you want a Coke, Thomas?’ Orson repeated. It was still early
, his speech still lucid.

His throat was dry, and Thomas nodded, ‘
Please, sir.’

Orson didn’t move. But the sphere of light bounced a time or two
, and then sped through the open door and into the cottage.

The
y were left in the gloamy dark and Thomas could see nothing of Orson’s face. He heard a door suck open (like that of a fridge), and then slam. And then another one open, and the tinkling of glass and another slam. The sound of released gas as a can was opened…

Seconds later three items came drifting out off the door. A tin of cold-d
rink, a glass, and behind them - like a guard providing light, the ball of fire. Amazed, Thomas took the cold tin and the glass from the air, and the fiery sphere returned to its previous place a couple of metres away, hovering above and between Orson and his guest.

Thomas
placed the glass on the wooden floor and drank straight from the can; Orson sat watching him in silence and sipped at his wine. The light invaded the lines and dips and crags of his face, turning its planes and protuberances into a grotesque mask.

‘So, Thomas. Are you to be our next Traveller then?’ Orson asked at last.

‘I don’t know, sir.’ Thomas hesitated. ‘I don’t know,’ he repeated, ‘although Ariana says I’m the only one who does. The only one who
knows
… sir.’

Orson, in a surprised voice, rasped, ‘You’ve seen Ariana?’

‘Yes, sir. Twice, sir.’

Orson choked and spluttered red wine over the stomach and legs
of his yellowish long johns. They looked grey in the dark. ‘Stop calling me sir,’ he said, and then asked, ‘When did you see her?’

‘Yes, sir. The night before last, sir. And again this afternoon.’

‘Three days? You’ve seen her twice in three days?’ Orson gargled, amazed.

‘Yes, sir.’ And then, as an afterthought, Thomas added, ‘I’m seeing her again tomorrow.’

Orson sank back into his recliner and seemed to deflate.

‘And, sir?’ Thomas continued.

‘Yes, Thomas?’ Listless.

‘She’d like to see
you
tomorrow, sir,’ and Thomas gave him Ariana’s message.

A long
silence followed; Thomas listened to the night and heard the wine gurgle down Orson’s throat when he took another gulp of it. When he spoke again, the Traveller seemed perkier.

‘Tomorrow, huh?’

Thomas nodded.

‘Both of us?’

‘N
o, sir,’ Thomas shook his head. ‘She asked that you come early; she’s seeing me tomorrow night.’

‘Stop calling me sir,’ Orson said,
then sighed. ‘I suppose we’d better get started then.’

‘Sir?’ Thomas had no idea
of what he meant.

Orson
frowned at the “sir”, and shook his head as at a lost cause. Then said, ‘Let me tell you what a Traveller is, Thomas.’

‘I already know, sir.’

‘Know what?’

‘What a Traveller is, sir.’

Orson grimaced. ‘No, you don’t,’ he said.  

*****

The dwarves were drinking and smoking and Jason was dancing. The fire in the centre of the clearing burned high and orangey-red, and flickered and made shadows and secrets on their happy faces and the giant trees. A long low table stood to one side, groaning under the weight of cold-cuts and pastries and puddings; another held drink.